John August

QandA

Shouldn’t I get credit for the outline?

Film Industry, Psych 101, QandA, Rights and Copyright

questionmarkI work for a small European film company. On one project-in-development (based on historical events and characters), my boss verbally outlined the story of the entire screenplay while I took notes. I then went away and wrote a 35 page detailed outline based on her verbal instructions and incorporating my own much more detailed descriptions, scene settings, character nuances and several ideas.

The treatment was written mostly out of office hours and on my own personal computer without overtime pay. My boss didn’t write a word. The treatment was always intended to be sent to a more experienced screenplay writer, and I was always happy with this. I never had a special contract for this project (nor do I have any contract with this company), doing the work in good faith and expecting at the very least my name would remain on the treatment.

However, the treatment is about to be sent to the screenplay writer and I’ve noticed today that my ‘treatment written by’ has been taken off the treatment and my boss has left her name only with ‘story by’. When I asked about this I was told that it was not my film. I spent a huge amount of time on this and am quite upset, mostly by the blatant disregard for my work.

In this situation do I have copyright in the project? Should I insist on having my name included on the treatment and should I get any credit on the eventual film?

— Marley
London, UK

Not only am I not a lawyer, I’m not a British lawyer specializing in copyright. So my advice here isn’t as counsel, and shouldn’t be considered as part of any legal claim whatsoever.

That said, don’t pursue it. As frustrating as this is right now, you have the opportunity to learn from it. And so do the people reading your question.

Let me break down your statement into smaller chunks:

  1. You’re employed by a film company in some sort of production executive or assistant role.
  2. Your company is developing a project based on historical (and presumably public domain) material.
  3. Your boss instructed you to take notes as she pitched the entire plot of the movie based on that material.
  4. You wrote up this pitch as an outline, embellished with your own details. (It’s unclear whether you were instructed to embellish, or if you did this on your own.)
  5. The result, a 35-page document, was sent to a screenwriter.
  6. As sent to the screenwriter, that document did not have your name on it.

Let’s start from the top. You’re employed by a film company. Depending on British laws, anything you write on behalf of the company may be their property, just as a spreadsheet an accountant creates for a paper company is owned by the company. Again, I don’t know the specifics of how it works in the U.K., but in the U.S., this would certainly be a factor in any copyright claim. Writing the outline after hours on your own computer is unlikely to matter, since you were writing it on behalf of the company.

Second, the property is based on public domain sources. If this were based on a novel the producer had optioned, I doubt you would be writing in with this question, because you would recognize that the story belongs to someone else. It’s partly because the source material is “out in the wild” that you feel ownership to your creation.

In this case, the story belongs to the producer. You say she verbally outlined the story of the entire screenplay. So I ask you: if she had tape-recorded her pitch and asked you to transcribe it verbatim, would you still feel the pangs of authorship? Probably not. You’d see yourself as a typist.

Which raises the question, At what point in the embellishment did the outline become “yours”?

That’s a tough question for you to answer, and even tougher for a judge or jury.

I have some sympathy for your boss upon being handed a 35-page outline. ((I’m using “outline” and “treatment” interchangeably. Treatments tend to be longer than outlines, but at this length, either term makes sense.)) Here is the movie she pitched you, but with changes she couldn’t have anticipated. It’s her story, but suddenly your name is on the cover, and it’s not at all clear whether the extra work is meant to impress her or grab credit from her.

To put it bluntly, are you a brown-noser or a back-stabber? An over-achiever or an underminer?

If I were in her place, I would sit you down and have an uncomfortable conversation about your job description and the difference between what you do and what a paid screenwriter does. Because imagine the scenario in which you suddenly came back with a 120-page screenplay. She would rightly be furious. You would have taken her story without permission.

Which leads us to the last point. The outline you wrote was sent to a screenwriter — for whom I also feel sympathy, because an outline at that level of detail feels like a straightjacket. But assuming the movie gets made (a big assumption), how would you hope to defend what pieces of the final product are “yours”? You wrote the outline following the instructions of your producer, so every element would come down to you-said, she-said.

Again, I’m only responding to the facts as you presented them. I understand why your feelings are hurt, but I think pursuing them further is a mistake legally and professionally. Writing up notes, outlines and beat sheets is part of a creative exec’s job description. And so is not getting credit when credit is due.

When I was in film school, the president of production for Warner Bros. came in to talk about his job. He said that his buddies back home would see his movies and always ask, “Why isn’t your name on it?”

“I’m the shield,” he would reply, referring to the Warner Bros. logo.

And that’s where you’re at, Marley. Your credit is the production company billing on the movie. If that’s not enough, take it as incentive to write or produce your own movies that will carry your name.

What do you do when the buzz fades?

Film Industry, Indie, Psych 101, QandA, Sundance

questionmarkI’m in a new situation that I’m trying to navigate, and I was hoping you could help for my benefit and the benefit of those who read your column and blog and might find themselves in a similar situation.

I recently wrote and directed a low-budget feature that played at a film festival in Los Angeles. A producer was at the screening, loved the movie, and subsequently got me in touch with several large distributors and top-five agencies who then proceeded to blow my phone up for the next couple of days. She suggested I send out screeners to them, which I did. I even dropped off a screener to an agency I was set to have a meeting with, only to have them cancel the next morning “unexpectedly.” Then I started getting passes, which has snowballed.

It has been a couple of weeks now and it doesn’t look like I was able to strike while the iron was hot. I feel like I’m back to square one. My goals for this movie are to get a small distribution deal with DVD and maybe VOD with a mid-size company that knows how to deal with low-budget movies. My goals for my career are to write and direct my own projects, while supplementing that work with rewrite and punch-up jobs.

Based on the information I gave you, can you tell me: a) what I did wrong so that, should I be in this situation again, I can do better next time, and b) what I should do now to accomplish those goals?

— James
writer/diector, Eastern College

You really didn’t do anything wrong, other than let your expectations get built up too high by one guy. Believe me, I understand how it happens: it’s great when people like your work. It’s exciting when they describe a possible future with meetings and projects and enough money to stop living like a college student.

Enthusiasm is a sugar rush. You really feel it when it’s over.

My friend Aaron Lindenthaler had a film at the same festival (Dances with Films), and while I haven’t gotten the full post-mortem on his experience, I suspect he found a lot of the same reactions. A good response at a festival is gratifying, but it doesn’t translate particularly well to the larger business.

Looking at your trailer, the movie feels like a scrappy college comedy, not unlike Box Elder, the film Todd Sklar wrote about a couple of weeks ago. It’s absolutely valid terrain for a movie, and no one’s allowed to say that there are too many of them. But there are enough scrappy indie college movies that it’s hard to stand out from the pack, and harder still to convince an agency or distributor that you’re worth the investment.

I don’t know how many meetings you had, or how they went, but you were probably meeting with people in their 30’s or 40’s, whereas you’re likely early 20’s, still fresh from the college experience. Your peers are working in agency mailrooms. And they’re who you really want to see your film, because in two years they’ll be junior agents, and you’ll be one of their clients. So if you have any more meetings, try to talk with the guys getting you your Diet Coke. They’re as hungry to make it as you are.

In terms of distribution, I don’t know how realistic it is to be making money off of it. Don’t let that stop you from going after distributors who specialize in indie DVDs and/or VOD — but don’t pin all your hopes on it.

The better goal is to get it in front of as many eyes as possible in your target audience. Todd Sklar and crew are traveling around the country like an indie band, which sounds exhausting. But maybe you can piggyback on someone else’s travel. Does the music in your movie come from a popular local band? Then give away DVDs at their shows. And I wouldn’t panic about it leaking online. Much worse things could happen. In fact, at a certain point you might just want to keep a link to the torrent on your film’s site. ((Another option: I’d be tempted to find some prolific and well-regarded torrenter and anonymously tip him to where he could find a Quicktime file sitting unguarded on a server. You’ll get better exposure if it comes from someone with pirate cred.))

Based on its current trajectory, your movie probably won’t end up in Blockbuster. That’s okay. You can likely get it carried by Netflix, which is better in the long tail world.

And beyond that, focus on what’s next. Don’t dwell on what-mighta-beens. The iron was never that hot, and while you’re at square one, you didn’t get sent any further back. You made a movie. Get the most you can out of it, then get cracking on doing the next project.

Keeping track of time

QandA, Words on the page

questionmarkI have recently finished writing a screenplay with a friend. It takes place in present day. Towards the end of the first act, we go to a flashback, 30 years earlier to 1978, when the main character was 8 years old. After the flashback, we come back to November of the next year.

So if the beginning of the film was in December 2008, we then cut to flashback in 1978, and come back to November of 2009. How would we label, or denote this? We were going to put TITLE OVER: November of the following year.

We felt that doing this might confuse people more, in thinking that it is just one year later than the flashback. We’re confused and want to make sure the reader isn’t confused.

It’s not clear from your example whether it’s important that the reader (and ultimately the viewer) know that it’s specifically 2008 — for instance, that it’s an election year. Most likely, it’s not important at all. The story is just set in “present day,” which happens to be 2008 or 2009. So I’d avoid any mention of the year except for the flashback, which is mostly to give a sense of relative ages and period setting.

Specifically, I’d recommend the following:

  • Don’t say anything about the year until the flashback.
  • Before that, if it’s important that it be December, give us a concrete visual (e.g. Christmas shopping) that lets us know the month, rather than a title over.
  • For the flashback, don’t do a title over for the year. Just include [1978] in the sluglines.
  • When you return to the present, mark [PRESENT DAY] in the first slugline. You don’t need to continue it after that.
  • If you need to show that 11 months have passed, give us a clear story indicator. Something or someone has grown or changed in the interim. (If nothing has changed, why are you jumping forward anyway?)

A project I’m currently writing moves forward a lot in time, much in the way The Godfather or Goodfellas does. At first, my instinct was to carefully label all the time cuts, but it quickly became clear that what mattered wasn’t the months but the forward progress of the story. Readers can keep up with you if they’re engaged.

Aquaman is a Pescepublican

Dead Projects, Projects, Psych 101

Recent articles about the political leanings of popular comic book characters got me thinking about the uncanny valley between fictional and real-world ideologies. We’re happy to have characters speak in broad terms — “With great power comes great responsibility” — but the minute they start referring to specific issues, we become very uncomfortable.

How does The Flash feel about immigration? Is Wolverine pro-choice? Does Black Canary support the First Amendment rights of hate groups? We don’t know, and really don’t want to know.

To be certain, comics sometimes do have their characters take specific, controversial political stands. Famously, Frank Miller’s Superman in The Dark Knight Returns is literally working for Reagan. But more often, we get placeholders and parallels to soften the blow.

Wonder Woman’s homeland of Themiscyra is isolationist, as the U.S has been at times. The Green Lanterns police the universe, like U.N. peacekeepers writ large. And X-Men are mutants who fight prejudice, discrimination and mutant-phobia.

Sometimes the analogies are transparent. Black Adam rules Kahndaq with an iron fist — he’s literally a weapon of mass destruction, and a danger to the free world. But the facile Iraq/Al-Qaeda parallels only go so far. Yes, he’s a tyrant, but there’s no religion or oil at stake, no greater cause beyond his own ego. If Black Adam were to get sucked into a magic scarab, or sent to the farthest reaches of the universe, there would be no more “Kahndaq crisis.” ((As recent history has shown, simply getting rid of the leader achieves less than you’d think in the real world.))

And this is probably a good thing. I’d argue that the thematic success of comic book characters, and comic book storylines, comes from how closely they can approach the line separating Real from Too Real, without crossing it.

For example, this summer’s The Dark Knight is set in the most realistic Gotham City yet, but its characters still speak in broad philosophical proclamations. Just listen to Batman:

Sometimes, truth isn’t good enough. Sometimes people deserve more. Sometimes people deserve to have their faith rewarded.

Sometimes, dialogue should only be spoken while wearing a mask. His statement makes sense in abstract, but you wouldn’t want it applied to, say, the invasion of a sovereign nation based on false evidence. Even Commissioner Gordon seems to understand that Batman is better suited to villain-thumping than leadership. His improbable answer to his young son’s question about why Batman is running:

Because he’s the hero Gotham deserves, but not the one it needs right now…and so we’ll hunt him, because he can take it. Because he’s not a hero. He’s a silent guardian, a watchful protector…a dark knight.

(MUSIC RISES.)

Efforts to place TDK’s Batman on a real-world political spectrum are doomed. Sure, he’s tough on crime, but he’s also anti-gun. He holds himself outside the law, but destroys his own phone-tapping technology. Is he a Conservative? A Liberal? ((Note: Dry humor at link. You have to read a few entries to get the gist of it.)) A Libertarian?

Nope, he’s just Batman. And as a comic book character, he’s allowed to hold simultaneous incompatible philosophies.

I think fans are responding to this latest wave of superhero movies not because they’re more realistic, but because they safely insulate us from reality, letting us address epic themes without uncomfortable details. Law versus Chaos is entertaining in TDK, but messy when you look at Iraq. The military-industrial complex is, well, less complex when Tony Stark can simply stop making weapons. And become a weapon. Or something. (The important thing is, he beat up Jeff Bridges, who was visibly evil and bald.)

The episode of Heroes: Origins I was set to write and direct last year deliberately crossed that line between “somewhat believable” and “far too realistic.” It was structured as an installment of A&E’s great documentary series Intervention, and followed two addicts with superpowers. We never shot it — the whole series got shelved — but I’m not sure it would have worked. And the producers were certainly nervous. In Iron Man, Tony Stark’s alcoholism is fundamental but non-threatening; real addiction is too real, too uncomfortable.

On some level, we want to keep our heroes just pure enough to fight the bad guys without encumbrance.